HD 'Plan B'
by tigersilver
Summary: AU, Hogwarts-era, post-War. Established relationship. This is the uber-fluffy sequel to 'Persnickity', published eons ago, and one of my WIPs, complete!


**HD 'Plan B'**

**0-0-0-0-0-0-0**

"What. Is. That Infernal. Gryffindor. _Doing_, Son?"

Lucius Malfoy shrieked this through the Floo, his voice climbing the Alps in amplitude. His hair—long and palest blond still and _not in_ _any_ way faded to the silvery-yellow of advancing age, despite that (very) few months in Wizarding gaol, off and on, after one Trial or t'other. Ahem, his hair—was silky-smooth about his well-clad shoulders, the coif exquisite, but yet waving wildly about with the sheer velocity of his internal miffdom.

Draco winced. His calm, collected old stick of a Papa was pulling a bloody Medusa on him, and he was just a shade stropped in the first place, what with Harry. Always that bedamned Harry!

If Draco peered and squinted, turning his chin at an angle, just so, he could make out his mother's hand gripping his father's shoulder quite tightly; restraining him, apparently, from striding straight through the Floo and throttling his only spawn-and-rightful heir astride the elegant flames of pretty Slytherin green. If beloved Mumsy hadn't cast a partial damper on this paternal shite-storm already, then Merlin knew, it was looking to be a rough few moments coming. Nasty, even.

Likely it was to be nasty anyway.

Draco manfully squared his already square shoulders and assumed his best meditatively composed expression, radiating waves of calm all about him. Non-homicidal calm, though he, too, was miffed in a Malfoy sort of way. However, his object of irritation (though the same as his father's) was also his objet d'amour. And that was a sticky sort of wicket indeed. One could not pull an Othello on Harry Potter—it just wasn't done.

"Father," he replied, having ascertained his papa was safely on his side of the Floo, "Harry_ is_ a tad…impetuous, I admit. He's—well, he's given to these somewhat rustic attacks of gallantry. Misplaced, of course, but still, you—and I—must make some allowances for it; he's been through a great deal of difficulty already—and it's rather charming, really, how he bashes about, you see, finding his way often through sheer naïveté. I've grown accustomed, y'see, and it's not so ba—"

"WHAT! _Allowances_?" Lucius Malfoy's voice barreled through as an enraged squeal, so high up the register in emotional portent it was well nigh ear-shattering. Draco's wince threatened to overcome his hard-held serene façade. "_Allowances_ sufficient to allow that prat to illegally elope with MY SON?_ That_ sort of _allowances_? You jest, Son—you dare _jest _with me!"

"No, no," Draco hastened to assure his father. "I do believe, Father, he's proceeding. In that, exactly. A…well, let's call it an _alliance_. Incorrectly, of course, but…proceeding. And _not_ illegally; he has made noises about a proper marriage."

"Gah! Nrrgh! Ibble!"

Lucius gibbered; Narcissa's hand could be seen turning quite white at the knuckles.

Draco, hunkering down upon his heels and haunches, schooled his face into an even stricter bland mask as the wave of tidal paternal ire rolled deathly inarticulate through the Floo, emanating like a freak tornado from the reserved ice floes of his parent's newly re-elegant Mansion.

As to that: a fortune had been spent to make it so very…pristine—this, Draco knew from his Goblin accountant. Father 's rapacious claws had been barely kept out Draco's Trust Fund he'd been left by dear old Grandfather Abraxas. What with all the Galleons Lucius had determinedly doled out in the effort to eradicate all traces of both the Dark Lord _and_ the Aurors from his ancestral pile, it had better damned well better be a bloody National Wizarding Trust Gold Seal Residence. Father would not, it seemed, put up with even the tiniest of besmirchments upon either his person, his Heir _or_ his Pile.

Which would one day become Draco's ancestral pile. Though he hoped not, Father's distempered fits aside, not for a good long time to come. Harry wouldn't be very happy there, Draco knew. And that, at least, was an aspect of his life he'd control over. The Dower House—safely on the other end of the Village of Malfoy—would do nicely for them, later.

After graduation. After he'd had a chance to show the world he was a proper candidate for Potter's paw.

He fingered the pendent Harry had given him for Valentine's whilst he waited for Lucius to regain speech. It was somehow immensely helpful in restoring his disturbed inner equilibrium: a tiny golden snake, with emerald eyes. He'd gifted Harry with a whole new wardrobe and the latest model Nimbus in return but hadn't felt as though either was really effectual in demonstrating his happiness with having Harry in his life.

And this _was_ but a parental shite storm, just as Potter had predicted would occur (showing a horrid sneaky Slytherin prescience). The prideful part of Draco planned to murder the knowing little sot simply for being so dreadfully knowing, as soon as his father finished flaying him raw where he knelt, taking the brunt of it.

But…he'd have to wait till after dinner to dole out Potter's punishment, actually, because, as Head Boy, Draco had to appear at dinner in the Great Hall: prim, proper and stiff-upper, simply to mind the lesser Years and manage general decorum. Even if he was rendered spitting with furious ire at his beloved idiot Gryffindor for contributing to his current debacle—or nursing a head-splitting migraine, after.

Damn Papa! What a poncey-arse queen he could be!

"Now, Lucius," he heard his mother murmur. "You know the boys are very much in lo—"

"I. DON'T. FUCKING CARE. **WHAT THEY**_** ARE**_, NARCISSA!"

Lucius, who seldom raised his voice above an urbane, mock-genial tone these days, had clearly lost any pretensions to proper Malfoy behaviour. Draco shrugged. He knew the feeling all too well; Harry sent him up with great regularity. Had never ceased eliciting that reaction from Draco, honestly, but at least now there was snogging and shagging to soothe his injured sensibilities.

There had, Draco decided, setting his jaw, better be shagging in the offing later this evening or he really would murder Harry—for sticking him squarely in this awful position. He'd done very well thus far keeping below Father's radar. It was, Draco decided, a matter of necessary discretion. He chose peace, thanks.

"Mum," he said, "perhaps Father needs—" _Sedatives_, he was going to suggest. Thankfully, he was cut off by his father's roar before he could complete that thought aloud—or Lucius may well have choked him to eternal silence.

"Darling, perhaps it's best—" his Mum began but Lucius overwhelmed her, too.

"DON'T YOU **DARE** 'FATHER' ME, YOU LITTLE UNGRATEFUL WHELP!" he gestured widely and Draco thanked Merlin silently and profusely his evil stick had never been repaired after the ex-Dark Lord snapped it, "and I _don't_ require a Calming Draught, either! Or Cheering, Salazar Forbid! I require only that you control that—that _Potter_ of yours, Draco! He's well out of bounds! Lamentable!"

"Father, really."

In dire pain about the temples, Draco fumbled hopefully for the knob that controlled the level of the flames, as it also functioned to control the Floo volume. Thank Morgana for the mod cons an updated post-final Battle Hogwarts featured.

"Do tone it down a bit."

With a few judicious twists of the Muffle Bakelite knob, his Father's historic rant was but a dulled hiss of static, and Draco watched in discreet quietude as his sire's lips moving furiously but without much more than an infuriated murmur carrying over the distance, though Lucius's arms still waved wildly about, along with his positively not-grey hair. Draco, happily, only caught every three words instead of shuddering through each single high-pitched syllable.

"Potter's intentions are honourable, I'm sure, even if a little misplaced. There will be a Bonding, one day. When it's suitable."

"Bonding!" mumbled Lucius. He growled it, next: "Bonding!"

Draco blinked. He nodded, politely.

"Why, yes. Yes, of course, Father. I don't play fast and loose; you know that."

"Matrimony!" his father muttered darkly. He snarled, upper lip curled over canines Draco could swear were visibly lengthening. "With. Bleeding. POTTER!"

"Dear…" Draco's Mum interjected, with a winsome smile and a cautioning Look send Draco's direction. "Don't you think—? Perhaps a tonic might be just the thing-"

"Public!"

"Or your favourite brandy, dear—" Draco's Mum continued valiantly. "The Napoleon?"

"Bah! Potter!"

"Father—" Draco tried. "Father, just stop."

"NEVER!"

His Father's hands were making some rather arcane and nasty gestures over that word. Draco didn't like the look of the one two-fingered flip, either.

"_Dad_," he began again, the casual endearment deliberate, but got precisely nowhere. "Dad, _please_—"

"_Prophet_!" Shrieks of that sort had even Mum frowning, Draco noted. "The Press!"

"Oh, for Salazar's Sake!" Draco exclaimed. "I can't even talk to you, Father! Do leave off now—forget them for now—"

"NEVER! Arsehole!" The epithets came through in spotty blips, thank the Three, sounding more like an obscure dialect than anything. Perhaps Orkney. "Pipsqueak! Interfering! Do-gooder! _Despoiler_!"

"Um, no, actually, Dad," Draco shook his head. "I, er, engaged in a bit of that last myself, so you can't blame Harry for _all _of it—"

"YES, I CAN! AND—AND I _**WILL**_! IF I_ LIKE_! **APPALLING**!"

The Floo must've been malfunctioning, as Lucius was once again highly audible, every word, no matter how Draco discreetly twiddled the knob.

"YOU. Will drop him, Draco—ditch the little shit! Before it's too late and we're all sunk!"

"No, really, Dad—you cannot just demand that I—"

"Lucius!" Draco's Mum dug her manicured nails into his father's shaking collarbone, and the elder man flinched. "Lucius, darling! That _will_ be enough, now! Remember your Little Issue, dear. Brandy, my dear; yes, that's the ticket."

"**APPALLING**!"

Draco was already nodding politely, though; agreeing with his papa's words despite himself.

_Appalling_. Yes, yes—it was, just as Father ranted—particularly _that_, in a way—that word, but only 'in a way'. The helter-skelter marital knot-tying Potter was attempting to force upon them both _was_ indeed _appalling_—exactly what Draco hadn't wanted. Potter w_as _an arsehole. A ham-fisted, exuberant arsehole with no good sense to his credit. That didn't mean Draco loved him less. It certainly didn't require he abandon his relationship with the knowing little git, either, no matter if his Father did expire of a random fit of apoplexy, right here and right now. That wasn't on. He'd not be forced, as he'd been before—no, not Draco Malfoy. His family would just have to accustom themselves. Certainly his darling Mum had already. She adored Potter, as much as a second son. It was…sweet, really.

Draco smiled, stupidly—a grave error, as it set his belligerent Papa off again, full steam.

"Bring!" gabbled the elder Malfoy, his pale face so red Draco rather thought he'd implode on the spot.

"The little shite!" he continued, gasping with fury, face mottled like salami. "Potter!"

"_**Here**_!" he commanded, at full froth. "To me!" _That_ came through the Floo loud and clear. "_**I'll**_ show 'em!"

_Well, no_. Draco shook his head at Lucius' flushed cheeks and fearsomely heavy scowl. He wasn't fool enough to escort his beloved anywhere near his childhood home _or_ his family—not till his father was either heavily brandy-fied and stashed safe in his private quarters or his mother managed to control him otherwise. Cheering Charm? More like a Stunner, maybe. Petrificus?

Draco opened his mouth to suggest certain other not-quite-as-well-known ways of calming the overwrought that Potter taught him, but then folded his lips tight-shut immediately. No point in irking Mum, as well. She could handle Father, being the consummate Slytherin; she could handle damned near _anything_, his Mum. He fiddled with the Floo knob, instead, marking time till he could honourably escape.

Thankfully it seemed to be working again, the knob. At least partly.

"KILL HIM!" Lucius ordered, in a tinny little roar, but clearly enunciated. "I will—for daring—shame you—with this rigmarole over a Bonding! _We_ should be in charge of that, Draco! WE. ARE. _MALFOYS_!"

"Darling, really." Mumsy had tightened her perfectly polished fingernails—both sets now and set firmly upon both of his papa's rearing shoulder. A straining Lucius was abruptly hauled back from the Manor's Floo fire. "Shut it now; there's a dear. Let Draco handle his own life."

"No. No! NO!"

"Oh, no, Father."

Draco just had to say it. He knew he should have sent an Owl to his parents before now, but he'd been waiting. For…the time to be right, just as he'd been waiting for Harry to—

"Not a chance, sorry."

Waiting for Harry to come to his senses; that was it. Waiting for Harry to graduate Hogwarts and go out in the world and realize there were far better catches to be had than a relatively disgraced Malfoy Junior.

"_Not_ dropping him, _not_ letting you near him, Father—no."

Waiting for Harry to then assure him that none of that mattered—not a whit, not a dram—that they were still together and would always be.

"In fact, stay the bloody hell away from him, Father. I know what I'm doing, thanks ever so."

Courtship for a Pureblood was a serious matter, after all; Draco was as aware of that as he was of his own very lengthy pedigree. Even when it was for love—_especially _when it was for Love—and not Galleons, Courtship Mattered. The style, the timing, the presents—the whole business was earth-shatteringly crucial to a couple's chances in the real world, after Bonding.

And—above everything, even his own ingrained Slytherin nature, compelling him to protect himself—Draco wanted _his_ Harry happy. He wanted him to be dead-fucking-certain that Draco was the right choice for him…the only choice, the one that endured. For they'd have much to endure, Draco knew.

He swallowed hard, his throat working, and allowed himself the faint relief of pinching his sinuses, to relieve the pounding pressure.

Even if it cost him.

"Look, er. Thank you for Flooing me, Father, Mother. Please know that your opinions are always highly valuable to me, as your son and—and I'll be sure to consider them, Father."

It would be sure to cost him, too. Waiting patiently, when all he wanted was to have Harry as his own. But...but, it would be worthwhile, yes. Better to handle it properly that risk—

"Son!"

"The less, um, nasty ones, that is. So, erm…I'll speak to both soon again, shall I? Stay well."

"DRACO!"

"At a later date, I think. End of term. Let you know my plans for the summer and how they pan out, yes? Er—brilliant! Good! And—good night now!"

Draco shut the Floo connection down posthaste, backing away from it as if it were a dangerous beast. Certainly it had contained one, just now. He stumbled to his feet, weary and with ears ringing still. Duty called, despite all this nonsense and paternal idiocy. And he'd a Harry to torture, besides. Torture with snogs and sucking and licking—It could all be much worse, really.

Really. It could. And Father…well, Father would get over himself or get stuffed. Mum would ensure it.

**0-0-0-0-0-0-0**

…Of course, none of Draco's good intentions nor well-meaning, honourable tenets regarding Courtship would prevent him from possibly AKing Harry himself, right this instant, or so he concluded, staring down upon the slight form of the bloody ridiculous Golden One.

Potter was kneeling. Kneeling! Bastard arse was literally _on his knees_. Before Draco's boot tips, head tilted way back to blink up at Draco's shocked visage. Supplicant, even, and so unnecessarily so! Tat Harry's dark locks were darker than Hades midnight in the bright morning sunlight; that his lovely eyes to colour of a sultan's fortune in emeralds was by the wayside—an unimportant sidebar in Potter's latest scheme to stampede Draco in what he believed to be the right direction.

In the Great Hall, no less, Potter was on his knees, abruptly—no warning. With a ring in hand and a posy of fragrant red roses in the other, fragrant and bedewed, and there was romantic music playing somehow, magically. And the eyes of all the entire school and its many, many inhabitants—available portraits, ghosts and Peeves included—were fixed upon them. Snape, too!

_As Potter proposed. _Before breakfast!

Draco was having no part of this. There was Courtship, and Courtship had Rules!

"And so," Harry was saying, "You would make me a very happy man, Draco Malfoy, if you would only accept this ring I got you as a token of my strong aff—"

Draco, swimming a rosy haze of anger and anguish, decided promptly he would remove the arse's gorgeous, touchable skin in small pieces and with a sharp dagger, dip it in a highly flammable acid, toss it in hot cauldron, watch it fritter 'round the edges till it was golden-brown, and then Incendio the remainder to ashes. Then, for good measure, he'd distill those same Potter-ashes to a fine liquor and spray it all over his mother's prized blue roses as fertilizer. Just to begin with.

He would so love to accept, but he couldn't! Why ever couldn't Harry understand that?

"—ections, honest and true. A symbol of our coming Bonding. As I'll always, always—"

And then—and then he would kill his idiot insane beloved again! Using an entirely different inventive method, quite possibly involving a rack-and-thumbscrews!

"—love you forever, Draco," Potter was saying, a goofy, gooey Gryffindor look in his green eyes. "So, please _please_ do me the honour of accepting my hand and name while _everyone is watching us_—"

Draco could swear he heard Harry's teeth gritting over that last…and then the world thankfully fuzzed out and Draco Malfoy, Headmistress McGonagall's contentious choice for Head Boy and a known ex-Death Eater, tough as they come, came as close to fainting dead away as a Malfoy ever did, his elegant person approaching the Reparo'd flagstones at top speed as he tottered.

"I can't—you mustn't! Oh, _don't_, Harry!"

"And can bear proper witness—"

Of course Potter caught him.

"In a court of law, if need be. Legally—all right and tight, Draco. See?"

Well before Draco might've struck the smooth stones with his spinning head—he _was_ a sodding Gryffindor and they did that—and then!

"To us swearing our inseparable love for each other—with this ring, I beseech thee—"

Then the git stuffed the sodding _ring_ onto Draco's limp ring finger, snogged Draco's damp, perspiring brow fervently and very fast—_and then_ bloody shouting to fucking well _everyone within earshot_—using an especially loud _Sonorus_:

"And intent to marry. **Thank you for accepting, Draco! I love you, too, darling**!"

It was just like the Hogwarts Express, smashing some unwary Kneazle flat on the rails. Really. That fast, that shocking—that Gryffindor-batshit insane!

Draco, just before he lost his grip altogether and the world mercifully faded to fuzzy black, had only one thought rattling about in his blond head: really, the world simply _couldn't_ go away fast enough!

**0-0-0-0-0-0-0**

But all good things come to an end, sadly. It did return at last, in fits and starts—the world, that was—and Draco blinked blearily at Madame Pomfrey's white-painted walls and immediately thought first of cold revenge.

"How are you feeling, love?" Potter bent over him, his face lined with worry and loving solicitousness. Draco scowled.

"I am planning your death, Potter."

"Fine," Harry shrugged it off stoically. "You do that, love. We'll schedule the formal execution first thing after our honeymoon. I've booked a Portkey to Romania so we can visit the dragons at Charlie's Reserve—you love them, right? Dragons? And Charlie says the local hotel's very posh there—the accommodations include a suite and a complimentary breakfast."

"I am_ not_ marrying you, Potter," Draco insisted flatly. "Not Bonding. Never, ever, not in this lifetime. Not like that. Not."

"Of course you are, Draco," Harry smiled. "The _Prophet_ has published our schedule of public appearances over the next week or so, before the actual ceremony—we can celebrate with everyone that way-and then your mother's handing all the details of actual Bonding. She's just consented, via Owl, before you came down to breakfast, so it's all settled but for the shouting. A June wedding is what every Malfoy betrothed has aspired to, these thousand years—so _she _says. It'll be fantastic, you'll see."

"I won't see. I hate you," Draco informed him. "_Hate_, Potter."

"I know, my sweet git. You'll get over it, I'm sure. But—isn't it fortunate the timing's worked out so well? _And _your Mum_ has _assured me your father won't be an issue. Some last minute business jaunt to Argentina he had already scheduled, I think? Pity he'll miss the Bonding itself but I find I can't mind that too much. We never did get along, he and I."

"Potter!" Draco spluttered. "Potter!" Or frothed, really—like Father, like son. "Potter!" He went red and only barely swallowed back a vicious Dark hex. "Potter, Potter, **Potter**!"

"Yes, indeed. I'm Potter, Draco. And soon to be Malfoy. Isn't it super?"

"Argh—**urk**!"

Harry kissed him. Square on his open mouth, shoving in tongue and stopping Draco's second gasp of outrage before it even started. Draco struggled willfully against the invasion, fury pouring through his veins—a white-hot anger of such great degree Draco quite thought he'd combust.

And then fingertips found his nipples through the thin Infirmary gown Madame must have stuffed him in and twisted _just that way_.

"Oooo, Harry!" he moaned, sagging back against the heaped up pillows. "Gods!"

"Um," Harry moaned, writhing his upper body all over Draco's, in the way that drove Draco mental. "You're _so _fucking—"

And climbed right onto Draco's cot, the sly little sexy arse that he was, straddling Draco's hips and tugging down the thin blanket as fast as he could manage. Draco's cock went from limp and shriveled to hard-as-thrice-fired Damascus steel in less than ought-five seconds. All the blood left his throbbing temples and travelled south so fast he went sodding dizzy again at the pure sensation of mach speed.

"Give it to me, Malfoy!" Harry ordered him, hissing the command 'round the edges of their sealed mouths. "Show me!" It was just like Parseltongue, the sod. "Hate me all you like, but!" And Harry knew exactly what effect Parseltongue had on Draco's libido. Rabid wasn't the half of it. "Give me your cock, you contrary bastard!"

"Mrrn-arggle!"

Gurgling his staunched outrage and his very real need to roger Harry to mindless acquiescence, Draco did as commanded: hard, fast and dry.

Dry enough so that Harry's insides caught at his dick as he blindly shoved it in, creating a delicious but very nasty friction. The drag eased up instantly as they both shivered and Draco silently murmured the familiar lubrication spell inside his spinning head. Vigorously, he gave his all to pounding upwards into Harry's arsehole, his spine arched upwards in a perfect 'U'. Harry was nearly bucked off Draco's ramping, eager hips altogether, his teeth a'chatter …until they both moaned and groaned out the sweet muffled noises of their completions in glorious unison.

Took not much time at all, Harry's Slytherin diversionary tactics. But…

Plotting revenge all the while, Draco was. Multitasking was something Malfoys did in their sodding _sleep_.

**0-0-0-0-0-0-0**

"One hundred _dozen _white lilies, then, Mister Malfoy?" Floribunda Pinkstone jotted the order down in her book. "A matching lot of the emerald coloured rosebuds, and then all the centerpieces, boutonnières and ladies corsages in shades of green and silver, red and gold, correct? Slytherin and Gryffindor colours, alternating, you said? And, erm… you're having this event catered by...whom?" She raised a grey fluffy eyebrow at him and smiled vacuously. "Just so I may coordinate my delivery, of course."

"Lightning Strikes Events, Ltd.," Draco replied dryly. He'd found the name of the establishment most fitting, given the circumstances. "Those last are for Beltane Betrothal Ceremony I've planned, though. Naturally, I'll need the other order—the 'Love Speaks' posy— delivered immediately, as soon as it's made up, and then the same again for every day between now and—"

"The fifth of June, Mister Malfoy," Madam Pinkstone smiled, "first thing, in the morning post. Yes, I've got that. And you'll be requiring the other special orders all at once, and those delivered all to be delivered to Hogwarts as well, yes, but on the morning of the fifth?"

"That's it, exactly," Draco nodded courteously. Floribunda might look like a Hufflepuff—Hades, she might very well _be_ a Hufflepuff—but Mother had recommended her services highly when he'd contacted her with his grand scheme of romantic revenge against Harry. The git wanted to go sodding public? Well, then, Draco would ensure it was so!

"Thank you. Send the bill to Gringott's, please, to my accountant's attention. Goblin Acrimonius Scofflaw the Third, his name is. VIP Wizarding Services, Huge Vaults Division."

Florabunda nodded happily, making further notes on her ledger, and causing a whole flurry of grey ringlets to descend from her ill-kempt bun. Draco could swear he saw leafy, vine-y tendrils entwined with the hot pink ribbons that had failed to bind them, but that wasn't important now. If the Witch lived up to her rep as a tip-top Wizarding florist, she could stick whatever she wished in her mop; Draco couldn't give a hoot.

What _was _important was Courting Potter Properly, all in ten days or less, max. This to enact the vilest form of revenge Draco could possibly conceive of which wouldn't physically harm a hair on that spry Seeker's body of Harry's nor a single atom of that tenderly innocent Gryffindor heart of his. But still—it would be a proper Malfoy revenge and Harry would know it as exactly that, Draco swore to himself.

There was no fucking, bloody, _frigging_ way he was losing this battle now, not to _that_ little sod. They would begin as Draco meant to go on, with _him_ guiding the marital broomstick, by Salazar!

Er, right, then. Draco gathered his thoughts and returned to his military-style stratagems with gusto. He's a lot to accomplish and no time to do it in, really. Harry had better be stunned by his superiour quick thinking under pressure, as well as the sheer grandeur of the Ceremony Draco had in mind.

"Now," he remembered to ask the florist, "would you be able to recommend a Licensed Aromatherapist to me? I find I'm in need of pomanders and sweet-smelling sachets, suddenly. And a musical group of some sort, popular—I'll be wanting one of those, I think. There'll be the customary dancing."

Floribunda twittered—there was no other word for it. She was wreathed in kittenish smiles, all larger even the face-splitting one she'd worn whilst accepting his Very Large Order.

"My sister, Cordelia, just happens to have this perfectly darling little shoppe over in Characteristic Alley? 'Thee Olde Sweetest of Scentes of Truest Love Shoppe', she's named it. Isn't that just the most adorable thing ever? So...ah, just _so_ romantic, Mister Malfoy! Perfect place to browse for odorous items for two young Wizards in love! She carries all manner of oils and lotions, as well, I do recall. Ah! Would you…would you perhaps wish her direction, Mister Malfoy? As a courtesy for such an excellent order?"

Draco smiled—an evil, evil grimace of plastic joy. Nodded stiffly to express his acquiescence, and felt the vertebrae in his neck crack audibly from stifled tension. Stuck his hand out to sign off on the enormous parchment bill that had popped into existence before him, just above waist level, and then forced himself to smile even more widely. It pained him.

"Thank you, ma'am; that'll do nicely," he agreed, albeit through clenched teeth. "Tell me; is there any sort of family discounting available? For Very Large Orders? And have you relatives who handle photography—or whatever else is required for an Engagement Celebration? Um, cakes, perhaps? There should be cake. We'll require them, I think."

He scowled; proper Courtships when rushed could be so damnably confusing.

Floribunda's hair bloomed with sudden displays of the tiny white flowers known as Baby's Breath, she was so brilliantly ecstatic. Draco kept himself from sneering at this fancy only by dint of huge stretch-lipped faux smiling. Definitely a Hufflepuff—he shivered, as he 'd just given over the most important day in his life thus far into the guiding hands of the hideously soppy.

"As a matter of fact, Mister Malfoy…my extended family just happens to specialize in the very thing! How…fortunate, isn't it?" Floribunda trilled. "I'll direct you."

**0-0-0-0-0-0-0**

"Mmmm," Harry murmured sleepily, rolling over, "Draco. Have I told you I love you yet this morning?"

"I still hate you, Potter," Draco grumbled. "Don't talk to me."

"Well, then—can we shag?"

"Yes. Arse up, berk, and bite hard on that pillow, will you? You'll be walking quite carefully for the rest of the day, when _I'm_ done with you. And—I hate you, don't forget. That's why—"

"No, no, it's all good, Draco—all good. You go right ahead. Hate me, love."

"Prat. Bull-headed twit. _Gryffindor_!"

"Hhhm-mmmm, whatever…"

Stupid Potter was already moaning his idiot glee over such rough treatment—Draco had to grin at the berk fondly, but the berk couldn't see him doing it with his head jammed into the pillows like that, so all was well.

Gods, but he loved him—_his_ Harry. Willing and snarky, snippy and guileful—bold as brass; Harry was all these things, and so very precious.

Draco sighed, planting kisses round Potter's hole.

It couldn't possibly get better than this.

**0-0-0-0-0-0-0**

Adrian Brie-Pucker was a dapper young Wizard, with dark hair and a smallish frame, like Potter's. Even his hair stuck up—also like Potter's—but his eyes were a pale, washed-out blue-grey. He did, however, boast of taller blond male Bond-partner, which for some reason left Draco feeling nauseatingly fond of them both by simple association, and Pucker was 'the' known supreme master of dessert-oriented confection.

Which was exactly why Draco was interviewing him for the prospect of producing a Betrothal Cake large enough to comfortably feed a cool one thousand guests, staff, students and stray VIPs, such as Kingsley Shacklebolt and Victor Krum.

"On the thirty-second tier, Mr. Malfoy, I was envisioning a recreation of Mr. Potter's TriWizard Tournament bout with the Horned—Horned—"

"Hungarian Horntail, dear," his life-partner, Robert, reminded gently. "It was the fierce one—you remember, from the documentary we watched?"

"Right, right. That one." Adrian—as he insisted upon being addressed—waved his mate off with a little smile. "Ferosh, yes. In any event, I'd have that sort of dragon, the Horny sort, all done up in magical marzipan, naturally, and then I'd have one based on your given name, Mister Malfoy—all silvery-greenish, I think, maybe with piping racing stripes on it—battling it out playfully over turrets of whipped lightly-browned meringue—"

"How much will it set me back, Mr. Pucker?" Draco interrupted. "Not that the Galleons are at all important—but, can you have it ready by Beltane?"

"Oh, yes!" Adrian practically danced in his seat. "And it will be worth every Knut, darling!"

Really, that was all that mattered, when it came down to it, Draco concluded. Harry wouldn't have a clue what he'd started by going against Draco's express wishes—the sodding prat—till it hit him. Like a wall of solid cake, laced with the finest French brandy. In something like sixty-four separate tiers.

With butter-cream icing on top. And tiny little floating figures of Seekers, garbed in red and green robes—perfect!

Blasted Potter! Draco would damned well_ show_ him what a Pureblood Betrothal Ceremony _really_ entailed!

**0-0-0-0-0-0-0**

The Great Hall at Hogwarts had never looked like this! Draped in bunting, flowers and streamers; scented with roses and the rare Siberian orchids, and filled with the strains of a hundred stringed instruments and one Magicked Muggle tuba (Mother's idea, for emphasis, she'd claimed, as was the brass section and the lone French cornet), it was a fairytale setting for a Betrothal Ceremony like none had ever witnessed. Father would be proud of him, Draco was certain, as he settled his lapels and took up his place just outside the doors. Harry would be simply bowled over.

He'd know, then, that Draco meant business; that this was a serious endeavour they were embarking on and one he'd not be able to back out of in a few short years.

The only piece Draco lacked was the rings...but then he was wearing proudly the one Harry had given him, at that higgledy-piggledy _unofficial_ Betrothal ceremony he'd scrabbled together not even two weeks past, the arse, and that was more than good enough. They needed no others.

"Nrgh-ah! What's—what's—whoo—whoa!" Potter halted in his tracks, gawping, arms akimbo.

_**Yes! **_

Draco smiled his immense satisfaction as he watched his lover stumble over his own feet. He'd have fist-pumped but Malfoys didn't do that. But his Harry was stunned. Not quite silent, but close enough for him to get on with. It was working, the Courtship Proper—and his revenge, which was sweet, sweet, sweet!

Seizing the moment, Draco descended gracefully to his kneecaps, just inside the Great Hall's double doors. Everyone who was anyone, and even those who were not, had already been gathered; the first course served and gaily-tea toweled garbed Elves were unloading lashings of champagne on the multitude of guests. The mood was blithely ecstatic; people couldn't wait to see what Harry Potter would do next.

A hidden philharmonic played 'Pomp and Happenstance'; petals filtered down from the Charmed ceiling.

"Oooo-errr!" Harry gasped, not sparing a glance at his lover, who shifted uncomfortably. "Whoa!" The flagstones were quite painful, seeming to grow harder as he waited patiently for Harry to look at him. "Merlin's Bollocks!"

"Ahem. Harry." Draco coughed meaningfully. "Down here, Harry! Do pay attention."

"Would you look at that, Draco?" Harry grabbed at his lover's shoulder and jiggled it urgently, pointing rudely off at the corner champagne fountain. He didn't seem to notice Draco was in the classic position of The Lover, Approaching the Culmination of a Proper Courtship. Draco snorted darkly. "Merlin! And—and—is that a chocolate one, too? _Two_ fountains? What's going on, I wonder?"

"Har-_ry_!" Draco barked. He was mortified. All this effort and Harry was not even minding the most crucial event of them all—a Real Honest-to-Merlin Proposal, from a genuine Pureblood. A _Malfoy_, kneeling pathetically and offering up his pathetic little heart gift-wrapped for all to see. To a Plebe, who simply had no concept! "Look at me, berk! Down here!" he hissed.

Potter dithered, his green eyes darting everywhere. And every man Jack and Witch Jill was watching them. Draco blanched. He'd engineered it like this, but still…how humiliating!

"Is this all for Beltane, d'you think, Draco?" Harry, the speccy idiot, wasn't looking. "Wow! Headmistress has outdone herself!"

"Harry! That's _me_—_**I**_ did this! For _you_, you twat! Now, look at me, please. I've something to say to you!"

"Erm…what?"

Finally, finally the nitwit wrenched his head round and lowered his wondering gaze, meeting Draco's earnest eyes. Draco reached out to grasp Harry's hips—he needed something solid to cling to, now it was time—and opened his mouth.

"Wait, what? For me, you say? Draco?"

"Yes!" Draco growled. "That's what I've been trying to tell you, Potter. For you—all for you—and I didn't spare a Galleon to make it right and proper, either, so make sure to appreciate it, will you? I'd the very devil of a time, Harry, managing this and in such a short time—"

"Draco? But…why? There's no need—"

"There's every need!" Draco snapped. "You upstaged me! _Me_, a Malfoy! And you disregarded every rule of Purebloody Courtship, Harry. I have to make it right, somehow; don't you get it? Now, listen and listen well—"

Harry, instead of properly standing still and receiving Draco's proposal, dropped to his knees too, all at once, like a sack of potatoes. He gaped up at Draco's sincere snarl, his eyes very wide, wider than Draco had ever seen them, and so full of love Draco choked, mid-threat.

"I!" Draco exclaimed. "You!"

"_You_!" Harry breathed, and it was a benefice, that word. As if 'you', uttered just like that, in precisely _that_ manner, contained all the fondness and lust Harry held for him. "Oh, you!" he repeated—and flung himself willy-nilly against Draco's thumping chest, bowling them both over in a rush.

Draco's head smacked the flagstones, bouncing; he didn't mind.

"D'you—will you—please?" he gibbered, wrapping all his limbs about Harry in an effort to keep to the subject at hand. "With—always—me?"

"Yes! YES!" Lucius's recalled roar had nothing on Potter's. "YES-YES-YES!"

"Har—"

"Love!"

All else was drowned in snogs and cheers. Tears, too, from fond mother-in-laws to be and stern but kind-hearted Scotswomen. The triumphant roars of Gryffs, pleased for Harry; the happy hiss of Slytherins, proud of Draco. A multitude of VIPs and miscellany—even Weasleys. _All_ of them.

The sound of_ joy_. Just joy, pure and simple.

'Plan B', Draco concluded dizzily some time later, blinking through the layers of fabulously tasty Seeker Cake his Harry had happily smeared all over his kiss-damp face, was a raging Success.

A Resounding Success!

And, yes, he still reigned supreme as the consummate Slytherin. _And_ Malfoy. It had been a Proper Courtship, even if accomplished at light-speed.

Harry—_his Harry_—admitted it. And that was all Draco required.

_Finite_


End file.
